Consequence
by cleverdistraction
Summary: After the events of Meaning, House finds out, Wilson confronts him, and Cuddy is left with her guilt. HouseCuddy.


Title: Consequence

Author: Laura  
Summary: House finds out, Wilson confronts him, and Cuddy's left to her guilt.  
Timeline: After the events of "Meaning"  
A/N: Hi. This is my first House fic, so bear with me. I've written for other fandoms, but I'm new to House, so this will be my first for you all. I've only seen...about 7 episodes or so, but I've got my friend Alyssa feeding me transcripts and giving me all the information she thinks I need to know. I can't guarantee on how fabulous it is, but I tried. Blame "Meaning" because it was so good that I just had to do an almost-post-ep for it. :D So, here's my contribution to the Huddy goodness! (and please, tell me what you think, I'd love to know how I'm doing with these characters...is nervous)

---

There were no lights on in the office, leaving only the pale streetlamp outside the window to illuminate the harsh lines on their faces. Wilson bustled through the entrance in a hurry, but stopped short of words when the door clicked shut behind him and he looked upon the harried outline of the man before him. The door was the only noise in the room, save for their own shallow breathing, but House hadn't turned around at the sound. There really was no reason for him to, Wilson supposed, it was unmistakable who the uninvited guest was. He looked at House, sitting slumped in the chair with his hands folded in front of him, and took a deep breath before letting out what he had come to say.

"Cuddy won't talk to me. What did you do to her?" The accusatory tone in his voice was blatant and polished with frustration. _A long pause._

House remained facing the window, but his words cut the suffocating silence like a scalpel through skin.

"I told her what I thought of her little 'moral deed.'" He cleared his throat, stifling the brokenness of his own words. Wilson shook his head--not that his friend could see his disappointment--and closed his eyes, fingers pinching the bridge of his nose as if to keep the consequences of those words from reaching their fruition in his mind.

"What did you _say_, House?" He protested angrily.

_James Wilson--always trying to set things right._

"I told her it was bullshit for her to keep the status of my patient from me," he said plainly--_condescendingly_. He turned his chair to face him, then, eyes set in determination--_and morality_. "I have the _right_ to know."

It was hard enough on Wilson, sitting there watching House wade around in his own self-righteousness and absence of pain--_absence of addiction_--let alone hear him berate the decision--_his decision_--that Cuddy could barely live with herself over. He remembered Cuddy's tear-stained face and her incredulousness at his suggestion. He remembered the look in her eyes when he told her to lie to the man she had so much faith in and he couldn't help but feel the familiar pangs of guilt.

_No wonder she refused his calls._

"What happened to 'she was right to tell me no'?"

"Turns out she was wrong."

"How can you do this to her, House?"

He put on his most afronted face and spoke. "How can _I_ do this to _her_? Wilson, did you take a sharp blow to the head? She _lied_ to me--and I know, I know: _everybody lies_, but..."

"...but not Cuddy? Not to you." he interrupted, matter-of-factly. House frowned at him in steely silence. "You're missing the bigger picture here, House--as usual."

"And, yes, do tell me, Dr. Wilson--what exactly have I oh-so-tragically overlooked?"

Wilson flushed a deep red reserved for outbursts of emotion, before letting out a deep breath and throwing his hands in the air—_exhausted from trying._ He turned to the door, hand poised on his forehead as though he could barely believe the bitterness coming from this broken man. He turned back and pointed, mere inches from House's face. "She _trusted_ you," he spat, "when there was no proof or logical reason, she trusted you like she _always_ does."

"Oh, well that makes all the difference, then, doesn't it? Oh, oh, wait!" his mockingly excited face fell, replaced with a sour expression, "She still lied to me. Blows one hell of a hole in your theory, there, Jimmy."

Wilson dropped his finger from the air and rolled his eyes, remembering that he was talking to House--_his best friend, the two-year old._

He dropped his head, hands poised on his hips, and lowered his voice. "She only lied because I told her to."

Whatever reaction Wilson had cringed at the thought of, it did not come. House looked around a bit before resting his eyes on the guilty man in front of him. His expression hadn't changed by the time Wilson chanced a look at him. House leaned over the desk, folding his hands again, as if to tell a deep, dark secret and huskily replied: "I know."

Wilson raised his eyebrows in surprise, and then in disbelief. "You _know_? Cuddy told you?"

"No, of course not--she's way too self-sacrificing for that."

"_How_ do you know?"

"I know Cuddy."

"That doesn't make any sense."

"Her guilt would've killed her for not telling me. She wouldn't have been able to live with herself without running down to my office right away to let me know. And if _anyone_ thought it was in my 'best interest' to keep this from me, it would be you. Cameron's too pleasing, Chase is too willing, and Foreman's too moral." His face remained neutral, much to the other man's dismay.

"And yet you're in here, talking to me, but you refuse to talk to her?"

"She's Cuddy."

"You're right, that clears it all up," he said, rolling his eyes once more. "What the hell is wrong with you!"

"There really isn't going to be an answer that you're going to like, is there?"

"Stop it, House! You know what I mean."

"On the contrary, Jimmy-boy, I very rarely 'know what you mean.'"

"Why will you forgive me, but not her?"

"Cuddy's riddled with guilt--what difference would it make if I forgave her or not--she'll never forgive herself."

"She would if you told her you didn't _actually_ hate her."

"Oh, but I do."

"It's not in your capacity to hate Cuddy. Everyone else, yes. Cuddy, no." House looked away and settled back into his chair, ignoring Wilson's incessant drawl. "Is that what this is about?"

"What could you possibly mean?" he asked, reaching for a magazine on the corner of the desk.

"You can't stand the fact that you might care for someone as much as you cared for Stacy--and now you're finding that you might care for Cuddy a little too much, so you've got to push her away. You've got to make her believe you hate her and maybe it'll go away. That maybe if you ignore her, she'll start to treat you like she treats everyone else. That she'll stop having faith in you--she'll stop believing you--and then you'll actually have some ill-guided sense of mistrust to hate her for."

"Whatever the hell you just said, I'm sure that wasn't the reason at all." He said, flipping through the magazine, not bothering to read the articles—_knowing that his inattention was pissing Wilson off._

"Of course not." Wilson said dramatically. "Except, you know, there's a flaw in that theory: she'll never stop having faith in you. No matter how bitter you make yourself or how far you push her away, she won't stop believing you. God, Greg, you really think twenty years of friendship can be erased by some asinine scheme you concocted just after you found a way to replenish your stash of Vicodin?"

House looked up at him in skepticism, his mouth falling open slightly at the bitter words coming from his otherwise sociable friend.

"Yeah, I know about the pills. And I hid the pad, so I hope that's got you set for as long as your self-destructive behavior feels like lasting..."

_However long it lasts this round._

"How did you find out?"

"You wrote the damned thing on the pad, House. I can see the outlined imitation of my handwriting on the next sheet...next time, remember to cover your tracks better."

"Yeah, guess so..."

"She gave you a chance that I wouldn't have given you--why do you think that is?"

"Because her guilt renders her ineffectual..."

"That I sincerely doubt."

"Okay, Columbo, I'll bite...why?"

"There's an undercurrent."

"An _undercurrent_? Of what? I hope it's one of those mountain springs--we could make good money bottling water…people will buy anything labeled natural…"

"No, you jackass. There's something beyond all that 'friendship' you seem to deny exists."

"I don't know what the hell you're talking about, Wilson."

"You've got it so bad, you're blind to it...you two are a damned puzzle, so complicated and sometimes hard to put together, but in the end, you always manage to fit together perfectly. Stop fighting to put the pieces in the wrong places, and just accept that you know where they're meant to go."

"Maybe you could take that little speech and use it on some unsuspecting bastard who actually cares, next time..."

"Yeah, okay, House," he said, resigned, a hand on the doorknob to leave, "...just...ease up on the pills...and tell Cuddy you don't hate her."

---

It had been a week since the conversation--_confrontation_--in the office. House was too stubborn to follow Wilson's advice, and Wilson was too pissed at House's obstinate behavior to push him any further.

So it stood:

Cuddy talked to Wilson more and more often, shouldering most of the guilt he'd lain upon her shoulders. Wilson brought up issues of importance around House less and less, _almost_ to the point of giving up on a man he had loved for so long. And House pushed Cuddy further and further away, unwilling to entertain the possibility of something more.

Until House surprised them all--_himself included_. Wilson had never known the entire story: just the bits and pieces he'd heard through the gossip mill and in the broken, cluttered amounts of sarcasm distilled through his cryptic words.

---

He had shown up at her doorstep late that night, his bike loud and unruly on the quiet neighborhood streets. He knocked once, twice, and waited. Hearing no noises, no acknowledgement of his presence, he rounded the house like he had three weeks previous, coming upon her window. The lamp on her nightstand broke the darkness slightly, and as he looked through the sheer curtains hanging from her window, he felt suspiciously like a voyeur invading her personal sanctuary. His fingers grazed the cool glass and he tapped gently, unwilling to force his way into her space—_this time._

After a few moments, she heard the noise and followed its sound. She opened the window when she saw his face, refusing to hide the pained frown that played upon her lips. She hadn't bothered to wipe away the tears that had stained her cheeks, knowing that it would only direct his attention. She did, however, manage to stop the quivering in her lip without his noticing--_or so she thought._

"Why did you do it?" he asked flatly--_ambiguously._

"Do what?" she retorted, trying to keep her voice from breaking--_trying to make it uninterested._

"Inject him with the Cortisol. You said yourself that I didn't have any proof...so why did you do it?"

"Because...," she started out promisingly, far too strong and authoritative, but one look in his eyes and the self-assured answer died on her lips. "I don't know." She looked down at her hands, nervously wrestling with one another as she self-consciously worried about the direction of this conversation.

She didn't know how much strength she had left to fight him with.

"You did it--" He cleared his throat, unsure. "You did it because you had faith--in me."

"No...no, I just thought that..." Her eyes couldn't meet his, still concentrating on the wringing of her hands, as she shook her head. He reached out to still them and lifted her chin slightly to meet his gaze.

"You did it because there's a part of you that will always believe me. You don't like it, but it's there..."

"House, why are you here?" She said, exasperated.

"Admit it, Cuddy...tell me and you can go back to your little pity party." He said, annoyed with the lack of cooperation—_lack of communication_.

"If you came here to ridicule me, you could've at least waited until tomorrow morning when you pull whatever stunt you've been holding inside lately. Or were the barbs of your sarcasm just too sharp tonight to waste? Goodnight, Dr. House." She moved to shut the window and he pulled his hand back before it got caught in the guillotine of Cuddy's pain. When he left her sight, she threw the curtains together, slammed her fist against the pane, and rubbed her eyes, wishing the entire night over.

"If you really wanted me out of your life, you would've moved the key." He said, leaning against the doorframe. He mockingly tossed the key in the air and caught it, grinning slightly through the raw emotion shining in his eyes.

"House, no. I don't want to fight with you tonight."

"Who said anything about fighting?"

"So, I just imagined the past couple weeks? The avoidance and seething glares? God, House...the running away? Real mature, by the way."

"I aim to please."

"House, leave." She said, willing herself to be firm. She sat on the edge of the bed and waited for his retreating footsteps.

_She should have known better._

She heard his footsteps--until they stopped at the foot of her bed, merely a breath away. His touch was tender--not needy--this time as he cupped her face and turned her toward him. She closed her eyes as she faced him, simultaneously furious and elated with his disobedience.

"You will always believe in me, Cuddy. It's this flaw you have--you've always had it..."

"House..."she pleaded again, trying to escape his light grip. He let his hand drop to her shoulder, caressing the lace-and-cotton-covered skin with his thumb.

"Would you stop interrupting me because of your divine sense of vanity?" He chided. When she opened her mouth to protest, he pressed a finger to her lips and she breathed out a sigh of annoyance before closing them. "I came here tonight because of that damned flaw, so you should own up to it right now."

"Yeah, I've always praised my inability to say 'no' to you and mean it." She rolled her eyes and her gaze moved about the room--_anywhere but him._ He pulled his hands from her body, and she winced at the idiocy of her words, immediately wishing they hadn't been spoken. She couldn't look at him now--_wouldn't look at him_.

She felt the warm breath radiating into her ears, letting the words fill her and warm her the way his hands never could. "You are my biggest addiction. I've spent twenty years fighting it and I've gotten nowhere. You fill me up and break me down in a way that makes the painkillers jealous. I get high on you--the touch, the sight, the smell of you...the way you infiltrate my senses without knowing. I've fought it for so long that I think it's time I gave in...I'd be broken and useless without you."

She looked at him, eyes shining with skepticism and belief--_with contradiction_. He stood up straight, tearing his eyes from her--wanting to give her anything to believe in him now like she has always believed in him. He pulled out the orange bottle and leaned over to put it on her nightstand.

"I've been battling two addictions for too long..." At her surprised expression, he nodded his head slightly and acquiesced. "It's all I've got. Filled it just after I came back and...and now it's yours. I was fine for two months...but the pain in my leg--it comes and goes. It's manageable, but..."

"I know." It was all she murmured to him--_no pity, just understanding_.

"You knew I had--"

"--yeah...but I didn't want to...to assume that it was..."

"...yeah."

_Broken words fitting together to form coherence that no one else could ever understand._

"Why are you giving them to me?"

_Like she didn't know the answer._

"Wilson knows. You know. I know. Wilson can't stop me--we've hit a wall. I think he's given up--"

"--he'll never give up on you." She says—_prays._

"Yeah, but he doesn't know how to help anymore. He can only believe I'll do the right thing...and I always seem to disappoint him."

"And you don't disappoint me?" She said, barely making the statement a question.

"No, I disappoint you more than I do Wilson, if that's possible..."

"And yet?"

"And yet you have faith in me."

"Oh."

"I'm giving them to you because...when you're around, I need them less. When we're apart, the pain's worse...and I can't quite tell if it's just my leg that's hurting. So, I'm making a trade. And I know how much you hate that, but I figure it's worth a shot..."

"A trade?"

"I give you these pills and you stay. You never stop believing in me like you believed in me three weeks ago."

"You don't have to give me the pills for that, House."

"I gave you the pills because I don't want to take the chance that you'll give up on me like Wilson is starting to. I always want you to have that faith in me because it's better than the Vicodin…hands down."

"I'm not always going to agree with you. This doesn't change anything."

"Exactly."

"House?"

"I like that you fight me, Cuddy. I like the passion of it. I like that it keeps me from doing something really stupid."

"So, you understand that I'm not always going to follow your hunches blindly?" she said deliberately--_pointedly_--like the administrator she was—_would always be_—at heart.

"You said it yourself, Cuddy, if I've got a reason--if I've got proof--I've got carte blanche. _That's_ the faith I want to keep."

"Okay."

"Okay."

He stood straight for a contemplative moment before dipping to kiss her forehead, whispering, "Thank you," as he walked out her door--_whispering 'I love you' as he walked out her door._

The End


End file.
